


public email

by JackyM



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Canon-Typical Meat, Illness, Jon doesn't know what getting rickrolled is. Or what Neopets are., M/M, Parental Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-26
Updated: 2020-09-26
Packaged: 2021-03-08 00:01:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,106
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26666380
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JackyM/pseuds/JackyM
Summary: If you cannot make it to the Magnus Institute to make your statement, please send it electronically to:archivist@magnusinstitute.co.ukOur head archivist will respond to your statement as soon as they are able.
Relationships: (I didn't intend for that but it ended up happening fhghhg), Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist/Tim Stoker, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Comments: 13
Kudos: 120





	public email

**Author's Note:**

> So logicalDemonness and I were wondering if there's like, a public email people can send statements to, and that gave me the idea for this fic!!!
> 
> This ended up being a lot longer than I thought it would be fhhgh! But it was really fun to write so! owo

“You need me to _what_ , Elias?”

“I don’t think that whining is the proper response.” The words came out flatly, but there was something more menacing underneath them. Elias’ tone suggested he was simply giving instructions, something about his expression, the glinting in his eyes, gave Jon the impression that Elias was enjoying himself in asking for something so unreasonable. 

“I am _not_ ,” Jon sighed, steeling himself, “I am _not_ _whining_ , Elias. I am however overwhelmed with the disorganized array of statements that Gertrude left behind. I'm already behind schedule trying organizing them. I thought that by now we would at least have statements from those with surnames ending in A and B done by now, and--”

“Gertrude’s lack of organization is precisely why I need you to go through the public email address. It hasn’t been checked in quite some time, and the people who have sent their statements in through email feel ignored. I certainly hope I don’t need to explain to our head archivist why that might be a problem.”

The words _go ahead and try_ were bitter on Jon’s tongue, but he held it nonetheless. “No. I suppose you don’t. Though I don’t know why it needs to be myself who combs through several thousand spam emails when I have accounts from people who made the effort to come here.” He didn’t have time for this, and it was seeming more likely by the second that Elias knew this as well. It was infuriating. 

“Oh, Jon," Elias smiled, and it was terrible, "I’m sure they’re not all spam.”

“Then they are at least the sort of thing that doesn’t get past Rosie. I don’t have the time or patience for the statements of people who think they saw a ghost once.”

Elias sighed, not tiredly; an imitation of tiredly, perhaps. “If they really are all that easy to discredit, then it shouldn’t take more than a few seconds to bin them.”

“If that’s all this is, then I believe I can delegate this to Sasha or Tim.”

“Not Martin?”

“He’d actually read them all and get it done half as quickly. Take three weeks reading every damn statement of someone who got a fright because of their creaky flat.”

“Regardless,” Elias steepled his fingers, “they are sent with the intention of being read by our head archivist. It’s quite literally in your job description to at least look at what people have sent to the archivist’s public address.”

Jon sighed, genuinely exhausted, and pinched the bridge of his nose. “So I have no choice but to read all of Gertrude’s backlogged emails.”

“No. Just all of the backlogged emails that people sent to the institute’s head archivist. Reading all of Gertrude’s would be a serious breach of privacy. I don't believe she would appreciate from beyond the grave." Elias smiled, a slow, smug thing, and Jon huffed and averted his eyes. "Recall that the pursuit of enlightenment and knowledge is paved with things seemingly mindless to those unaware, as our founder so eloquently put it.”

“Spam emails did not exist in the nineteenth century. I have my doubts that logic would hold today.”

“I feel that it would. Let me know if you’ve found anything of note by the end of the day. I’d like to have legitimate cases sent in via email on record.”

Jon quietly sighed, again, and quietly left Elias’ office, not bothering to look back at him. The last thing he wanted to see was some facsimile of sympathy for a tedious chore spread across Elias’ face like some kind of full body-encompassing disease.

He was about halfway down the hall when he walked past Tim. As he was wont to do, Tim took notice of Jon’s business and eschewed any and all need to mind his own. Tim stopped, and reached a hand out and rested it against Jon’s shoulder, keeping him in place.

“Slow down a second, boss.”

“Tim, I did not have time for this before I met with Elias, and I have even less time for this now."

“Time for what?”

“For whatever...this is you’re doing.”

One of Tim's hands slid to Jon's waist, and the other to one of his hands. He flashed a smile at Jon. Winningly handsome, and incredibly annoying. Jon scowled as Tim looked down at him. “Time for an impromptu tango lesson?”

Jon sighed and tried pushing past Tim again, ineffectively. “That is very much not the kind of thing you should be attempting right now, Tim. Or ever. I think your hand positions are wrong.”

“Oh, relax. I'm just joking around,” Tim smiled at Jon’s apparent surprise and confusion, “And I was just going to ask how you’re _doing_ , Jon. That’s all. You don’t look so hot right now.”

“Ah. So your comments last week--”

“Oh, don’t worry," Tim waved his hand dismissively, "I still mean what I said. Gold’s a good color on you.

"Hm."

"Real good color on you. And I meant right now. You look like you do when those energy drinks finally start wearing off. If you need someone to pop out and get you more before you pass out at your desk--”

“I’m fine.”

“I wasn’t offering my services, I would’ve just told Martin to do it. You _know_ he’d jump at the chance.”

“Mm-hmm. Yes. Martin loves bringing people beverages, Tim, very astute observation. May I get back to work now?”

“What’s the rush? Elias ask you to do something huge like make a spreadsheet of all the times people came in with a statement about ghosts? I swear, that’s exactly the kind of thing he’ d tell people to waste their time on. Say it’s something about they’re all connected, like a weird undead conspiracy theorist.”

“Don’t tell him that. He may genuinely take your suggestion. But he very nearly asked me to do just that,” Jon managed a small laugh, “there’s a public email for the institute’s head archivist that he wants me to go through. Apparently Gertrude never bothered checking it.”

“Yeah, grannies can be like that. Never good with the old electronic mail.”

“I...suppose.”

“It must be full of promotion code emails for knitting needles. Or prune juice.”

“What I am more concerned about is countless clearly embellished statements people have sent in. Elias seems to think that it's important I look through them regardless."

“Sounds boring. Couldn’t someone else look through them?”

“I asked about that. Elias believes because they’re addressed to me it’s my responsibility to read them.”

“Oh,” Tim winced, “tough brake, boss. Because that doesn't _actually_ sound like your responsibility.”

“Indeed. Now, Tim, if you don’t mind--”

“Yeah, sure, I--wait, hold on. What’s the email address?”

“What?”

“The email address. Y’know, it’s something something at something dot something. There’s letters, an at symbol. It’s like a regular address for where you live, but linked to someone’s computer--”

“I know what an email is, Tim. Thank you. Believe it’s...archivist at the magnus institute, co dot UK.” Jon sighed, loosening himself enough to make a joke. “Why? You have a statement you’d like to give, Tim?”

Tim shook his head and smiled. “Nope. Just curious. Have a good one, boss.”

“I won’t.”

Tim scoffed. “ _O-kay_. Have a terrible one, then. I hope you have the worst day ever reading a million knitting needle coupons.”

Tim made a surprisingly fast exit, and Jon took that as evidence that Tim found this topic just as boring as he did. Sitting at his desk, Jon took it upon himself to start the arduous process of checking the head archivist’s public email address. Truth be told it was the first time he’d ever bothered opening it; he’d always had the feeling that it was full of less than of-quality statements, and that there were simply too many to bother trying to look for anything that sounded remotely plausible. 

There were, in fact, approximately eight thousand emails in the archivist’s inbox. 

Jon leaned back in his chair and sighed. He wanted to bin all of them, and tell Elias none of them were of note, but he had the feeling that Elias wouldn’t believe or accept that. Looking at the massive stack of emails in the inbox, Jon decided to start slowly working his way down, but would make the command decision to bin them as soon as they revealed themselves to be uninteresting and unbelievable. 

He didn't hold his breath when he clicked on the first one.

* * *

**To: archivist@magnusinstitute.co.uk**

**From: sh4d0w3m3r41d@yahoo.com.uk**

**Subject: he lolo i s aw a hogost**

H i,r,

Im see saw see g host

House

S so sorry im drunk,?

Mhou se is h ahuntedd

Ppleasee f orgive mee

Hoogle sssaid i can tell you i saw a ghosts. I am telling you i a aw a gh ost

I love you

Sent from my iPhone

* * *

_Not a good start_ , Jon thought to himself, binning the message. If all the emails sent in were inebriated messages sent by people who thought they could send in anything remotely adjacent to the paranormal, though, it would at least save him a lot of time and energy. 

A few more emails began, already, to pile on top of the most recent one, and Jon grit his teeth and clicked the message below the one he’d just binned. At least the subject was spelled correctly. 

* * *

**To: archivist@magnusinstitute.co.uk**

**From: tomcgrath17718@hotmail.co.uk**

Subject: My time at the cemetery

To whom it may concern,

I am writing to discuss my experience at a cemetery in Acton, following the passing of my father. I don’t mean to send in my experience and make it sound like I’m looking for some free therapy--I’m not--but I think it may better explain why what I saw last week was so harrowing. 

You see, my father was always quite prepared for death. When I was younger, he never failed to remind me that everything living dies at some point, when he had the opportunity. I remember when my goldfish flipped over, he told me that it was going to happen eventually, that it was bound to happen within my lifetime. In many ways it felt as though I lost something to how often he told me this about animals, about people older than me. I think when you’re younger, you think everything will live forever, including yourself. But my father always told me that one day he’d die, that I’d die, and I’d need to make it all count before it happened. 

Guess I didn’t. Not to him, anyways. By the time he got sick and wasn’t doing well, it’d been a while since we’d really talked to each other. Had a few quick conversations, over the phone. You know, the types of conversations that say you care about your relationship as a father and son, but not about each other. That you don’t really care about giving a name or words to the bond you share, besides just continuing to say it exists. Nothing had really happened between us, either. I’d felt badly about that, even before he got so ill. I’m not sure what it was, but it just got harder and harder to talk to him. Maybe it’s just how being an adult with parents ends up working out. They’re not treating you the way they used to, because they can’t. You get to see what they’re like as an adult and it’s never the person you remember them being. My dad had always been...well, alright, when I was a kid. But as an adult it just got hard too talk to him. Too hard. Too hard, to the point where I just didn’t want to anymore.

It wasn’t really a surprise when he died. Like I said, he’d been sick a while, and it had only been getting worse. I felt worse, too. I feel like I should’ve been more devastated when he died, like I should have awaited this happening with more fear. But instead I just felt...empty. Like he was dead, and that was the end of it. Not that he was dead, and that was terrible, that I’d lost someone who meant a lot to me. It felt almost like I lost a distant extended family member. A stranger, even. Like he’d been dead a long time.

The funeral. Well, the funeral was...boring. I won’t bore you with the details, but it was probably what he would’ve wanted. Didn’t really make the suggestion he went out with a bang. Just that he was here once, and he was gone. That thought didn’t comfort me, either. Just made me feel as hollow as the rest of the whole service. 

I didn’t feel anything. Not until he was getting buried. When I saw his casket getting lowered into the ground, that’s when I finally started to feel something. Because right as they set the casket down into the earth, the lid of it

cflglg frfre23e3221f

232

2

erererfrfv

* * *

Squinting, Jon ran a quick search through the inbox, looking for some follow-up email explaining why the sender failed to complete their email. Their cat, or them falling asleep, or something. He found nothing. Strange, but in all likelihood this person didn’t particularly feel like having to recount everything about their late father’s funeral, or had just decided sending it in was a wasted effort. 

Jon could follow up with them, sure, but it was hard to know who they were exactly based on their email address alone. “Tom McGrath” seemed like a safe bet. Maybe Martin could look for people with that name at some point, to provide at least some follow-up. Perhaps Sasha could do...something with computers to find out the real name of the person who sent it. 

Whatever he did decide to do, Jon decided to keep this email. It likely wasn’t “interesting” in the sense Elias meant it, but it couldn’t hurt to at least hold on to it. 

The new emails were piling at an alarming rate. Sighing, Jon opened one of the more recent ones, not believing for a second it was genuine.

* * *

**To:** **archivist@magnusinstitute.co.uk**

**From: joesp00ky@gmail.com**

**Subject: Sinister happenings…..**

[Greeting]

[Boring introduction by a boring person who wears the same plain shirt every day. Probably something about he can’t hold a girlfriend, and gee, I wonder why. Practically bores you to death talking about how much he likes working from nine until five and his favorite flavor is toothpaste.]

But here’s where it gets spooky!

[Thing that is spooky, like a bunch of angry vampires. Or maybe a big hole in the ground that only speaks French. Ooo, sinister! Oui oui, baguette, it’s gonna eat you!]

And now I can’t sleep at night!

* * *

Undoubtedly sent in as a joke. Jon deleted it before he’d even finished reading it. 

Another one came in a moment later, and this one looked more like spam than anything else. 

If he was just deleting spam and jokes, Jon swore, Jon _swore_ , he would outright refuse to continue doing this. No amount of hypothetical statement giver-to-archivist rapport was worth this. Even if there were genuine statements in here, they would have to be at least a few years old by this point and hardly worth following up on.

* * *

**To: archivist@magnusinstitute.co.uk**

**From: Neopets@neopets.com**

**Subject: Neopets - Welcome and Account Activation**

Hi! Welcome to Neopets! We’re glad you could join us. 

Before you can continue on your adventure through Neopia, you’ll need to activate your account so we know you’re a human and not, like, an evil robot or sentient plush doll or something like that. You never know!

Anyway, to activate your account, please visit this link and then you’ll be ready to go: http://www.neopets.com/activate.phtml?code=pizeroh

(If that link doesn’t work, you can visit Neopets.com and enter this code in the activation box: pizeroh)

And here’s your username so you don’t forget: tweedloverjs1991

(If you ever forget your password, you can reset it here: http://www.neopets.com/account/passwordreset.phtml )

* * *

Jon had no idea what Neopets was, and deleted the email before he finished reading it.

The email had been sent to the wrong address, surely, though he wasn’t sure how someone could possibly mistake the head archivist’s public email address for their own. Not unless Martin was setting up online accounts somewhere with his work email, which, now that Jon thought about it, was entirely plausible. If so, he’d need to have a word with him about that. There was no time for exploring Neopia when the scholarly documentation of paranormal experiences was on the table.

And, judging by the most recent email in the inbox, there was also no time for even more statements sent in as a joke. How many of these “statements” were just jokes? Why did Elias think it was a good idea to have a publicly available email to the institute’s head archivist when people had the freedom to just sent in whatever they wanted?

* * *

**To: archivist@magnusinstitute.co.ok**

**From: 1145tpxpc@gmail.com**

**Subject: A GHOST SLAPPED MY ARSE???**

hi there mr. archivist 

i am writing to tell you that a ghost slapped my arse. it’s true 

i was sitting in my flat wearing my trousers that are not in my working place’s dress code for some reason i guess my boss just sucks and doesn’t like how other hot people work with him and bent over to pick up a pen, in a hot way, because the only way i bend over is in a hot way and then a ghost just slapped me. slapped me right across the cheeks. im telling you they just slapped me and patted me there after like they were grateful for the opportunity. which they were by the way. anyone who does that should be grateful for the opportunity. i don’t let just anyone do that. you may not believe it but i have ridiculously high standards. 

i felt so good about it i went to a cemetery and asked every ghost there to slap my arse and guess what. every one of them did. i must have had like 50 pairs of ghost hands slapping me for like 2 hours. best thursday night of my life. oh you should have been there. oh i bet you WISH you were me.

have a nice day <3

-arbiter of ghost arse slappings

* * *

To his horror, Jon felt his lips quirk into a small smile. Jon took absolutely no interest in this obviously fake story sent in as a joke, or its implications, but he appreciated the confidence in it. Admirable, almost. But it was also getting deleted because it was completely inappropriate. 

Looking at the older emails in the inbox, Jon decided to try and read one that seemed genuine. Many of them weren’t; lots of spam and hurried accounts of people who claimed to have seen ghosts. A disproportionate amount of them, really. If Elias was so insistent on people being able to email the head archivist directly, there should at least be some forward about how sending in drunken accounts of ghosts was highly discouraged and would receive no follow up from the head archivist. The head archivist who was already extremely busy and barely had time to read any emails, even ones that offered legitimate statements. 

There were...other things that Jon couldn’t place as normal, but couldn’t really place as paranormal, either. 

* * *

**To: archivist@magnusinstitute.co.uk**

**From: hoary6708@yahoo.co.uk**

**Subject: Five Nights At Freddys. Was At the frid** ge. 

This email has been left intentionally blank.

* * *

After making the mindlessly time-consuming effort of deleting as many pointless emails as he could, Jon took notice again to the new emails coming in. Tim had sent an email in, interestingly, about one of his cases. _A smart way to get a hold of someone busy deleting emails,_ Jon had thought. _And a dreadfully painful one._

* * *

**To: archivist@magnusinstitute.co.uk**

**From: tstoker@magnusinstitute.co.uk**

**Subject: Boyle case**

Hi Jon--

I know you’re probably swamped with emails today and don’t want another one, but I found a bunch of blog entries from the Boyle case you might want to look at. Sending it to this email to make sure you see it so you can’t give out to me for not telling you sooner. Think this might be a big deal for the whole case.

[ https://tinyurl.com/y399ycrb ](https://tinyurl.com/y399ycrb)

Hope you haven’t gotten a bunch weird of statements about ghosts or ghosts slapping things. 

-Tim

* * *

Oh. 

_Oh._

So that “statement” regarding ghosts slapping physical human beings, a trait ghosts are not normally known to possess, had been from Tim. Jon should’ve been more suspect of Tim asking what the email address was, though he truly hadn’t been thinking about what Tim might do with it. Still, he had to appreciate Tim making up for his lack of professionalism by sending in something relevant to his current case. And, truth be told, if Jon had to see another joke statement again, he felt he might actually get sick all over his keyboard. Some blog entries seemed like a decent enough distraction for the time being. 

Upon finding the contents of the link Tim had sent were, in fact, not leading to a blog at all, and instead lead to a video on YouTube for one of Rick Astley’s hit singles, Jon found himself utterly disappointed but not shocked. He silently cursed the old PC in front of him for having both surprisingly loud speakers, and for being so incredibly slow it took nearly a minute for him to shut down the tab he’d opened. 

Muttering an expletive, Jon got up from his desk and out of his office, and trudged over to Tim’s desk in record time. Tim was expectedly unsurprised by Jon’s presence, but he did his best to pretend it was a shock regardless, biting his lip and trying not to smile.

“Something wrong, boss?” Jon could hear the laughter being actively bitten back.

“ _Yes_ , Tim, something is wrong. I don’t think I need to explain to you what’s wrong. Please don’t send me emails with any attachments unless they are work related?”

“No idea what you’re on about.”

“You sent me a video.”

“Oh--that.”

“Yes, Tim. That.”

“I thought you’d be a better sport about it. Happens to the best of us.”

“I’m sorry?”

“You know--getting rickrolled. I don’t think you’ve ever used the internet unless it’s happened at least _once_.”

“I'm sorry, Tim...rick rolled?”

“Uh…” Tim’s face lit up with incredulous amusement, “you seriously don’t know what that means? Wow, and here I was thinking that there _had_ to be someone more old-fashioned than you around here. You know, like, someone actually older than you. You really don’t know.”

“I am,” Jon sighed, “contextually beginning to develop an understanding as to what it means.”

“I can’t believe you didn’t know. Wait until I tell Sasha about this, she’s gonna--”

“Please don’t tell Sasha or anyone anything, Tim. Just get back to work and don’t--”

“Don’t rickroll you?”

“Don’t rick roll me, yes. Or continue to send me emails that are inappropriate in nature.”

"Ah, Jon. I did no such thing."

Jon turned on his to leave, paying no mind to Tim, who was quietly snickering to himself. The walk back to his office felt like it took hours, and Jon winced when he saw that he had an email waiting for him from Elias in the inbox. How Elias knew things like this was beyond him. His perception seemed almost inhuman at times. 

Apparently Elias had had the same idea as Tim, and was using it to scold him.

* * *

**To: archivist@magnusinstitute.co.uk**

**From: ebouchard@magnusinstitute.co.uk**

**Subject: [no subject]**

Jon:

Please refrain from playing music in your office space without headphones. It’s highly unprofessional and a distraction to your coworkers. 

Thank you.

Kind regards,

Elias

\---

Elias Bouchard

President of the Magnus Institute, London

_“The pupil in the eye of knowledge dilates in the presence of fear-caused ignorance, hungry.” -Jonah Magnus, 1829_

* * *

Jon would’ve binned this one, too, out of spite, if he wasn’t subtly afraid Elias would somehow find out he’d binned it and give him a talking-to for that as well. 

He spent a little more time sifting through emails that were obviously sent in as jokes, and through statements that really held no basis. The amount of people who “swore on their lives” that they saw some kind of phantom was not indicative of particularly good self-preservation, Jon had decided. 

There was a heavy amount of spam, too; Jon figured that after going this long unattended, it only made sense that this address had to have become the source for several offers regarding free gift cards. Apparently Gertrude had never thought to implement any kind of spam filter, which only served to make the inbox an even larger disorganized mess. Jon felt his eyes growing sore after deleting about 200 spam emails and an amount of clearly misremembered accounts of ghosts that he decided to look back to the more recent emails he’d been sent. It looked as though Sasha had sent him one, and Jon hoped that it was at the very least something sent to him in earnest. 

* * *

**To: archivist@magnusinstitute.co.uk**

**From: sjames@magnusinstitute.co.uk**

**Subject: A little something…**

Hi Jon!

Just in case someone’s been sending you lots of annoying emails through a bunch of fake GMail accounts. :-)

Hey, I begged him not to make more than one, if that helps. Sorry he got cheeky and sent one through his work email. My fault for not specifying the amount of pranks he was legally able to pull today.

Hang in there.

SJ

P.S.: Don’t forget to feed your new Neopet and give her a name! I gave you 400 million Neopoints. Tell no one. Seriously. You’ll get banned. 

* * *

Sent to him in earnest, it was not. At least, Jon didn’t think so. He wasn’t really sure he understood the image attachment, and wanted to ask Sasha if this was a productive use of her time at work. The bottom image was...menacing, and looked like it had a lot of work put into it. Evidently, she had also been the one who’d sent up an account on Neopets, whatever that was. Regret coursed through Jon’s veins. He should’ve suspected something when Tim asked what the email address was. As much as he generally valued Tim and Sasha’s work ethic, it was impossible to trust either of them to not cause distractions when an opportunity presented itself.

Almost as if on cue, Sasha’s voice came from the other side of the door, snapping Jon out of his head.

“Jon? Do you have a moment?”

“No.”

“Well, too bad,” Sasha opened the door and leaned against the handle, “it’s nothing serious. But I think you need to get everyone’s expense reports together soon.”

“I think you may be mistaken.”

“Uh, no? It’s near the end of the month, right?”

Jon paused, and then muffled a small groan. “...Yes. Good lord, that came out of nowhere.”

“I think it came out of the middle of the month, actually. That’s how time works.”

“Yes, Sasha. Very funny. But I’m sure you’re well aware of why I cannot put together your expense reports at this moment.”

“No, not today. Whenever. Except not whenever because it needs to be done by the end of the month.”

“I’ll get them together when I can. Is Tim still spending excessive amounts on doughnuts?”

“I didn’t check! But they’re not doughnuts, they’re like. Like a croissant, and a doughnut. A cronut. I’ve had one, they’re…” Sasha trailed off, making a vaguely disinterested noise.

“Elias seemed baffled by their very existence.”

“Not the worst reaction to them, I think. Hey, you’re going to feed your Neopet, right?”

“Excuse me?”

“I set up a Neopets account for you. I thought taking care of a pet would make you happier. Well, like, it’s a virtual one, but still.”

“I...have no intention of doing such a thing.”

“If you don’t, then Martin will. He’s already gotten a Faerie paintbrush for her.”

“What?”

“She looks super cute.”

“Martin...can take care of. Her. I...don’t have time for anything like that. And, about the comic that you sent me--”

“Oh, that? Did you like it? I made it in like, two seconds. Haven't made one since at least 2008.”

“I’m...I’m afraid I don’t understand it.”

“...Peach time?”

“...Peach time.”

“Oh, that’s the...never mind, never mind. Wow, you’re so boring,” Sasha rolled her eyes and smiled, “good luck with all the emails.”

“I’ll need it.”

Once Sasha was gone, Jon decided to focus on, at the very least, all the emails with subjects that had proper grammar and syntax, and were not outwardly spam. He found a few that at least had effort put into them; one about some kind of shadow monster that hung around a local tunnel, another about a vaguely harrowing experience with a spirit board. 

One email did catch his eye though.

* * *

**To: archivist@magnusinstitute.co.uk**

**From: jenkinz30@outlook.co.uk**

**Subject: Meat Freezer**

Hi,

I don’t know who else to tell about this. My employer still doesn’t believe me. Nobody believes me. I know what I saw, though, and I need someone else to know. I figure you’ll at least listen and give me some credit, here.

So, I help rehabilitate raptors. You know, large birds with talons. Owls and the like. Been working with them for over seven years now, at a rehabilitation center in Nantwich. I always liked big birds like that. Did you know that when they capture prey, hawks will dig their talons into an animal’s spine to stop them from moving? 

To feed them we need to have a lot of meat on hand. When it’s feeding time for them, we take the meat out, and put in a thaw box, since sometimes what we have for them is too big for the meat microwave, especially if we’re feeding multiple birds at once. Using the thaw box isn’t too bad, even if it’s sort of hot out and the flies start flying towards it. We don’t usually leave stuff in the thaw box long enough for it to start getting too bad. I don’t really mind rotting meat all that much--I wouldn’t have a job in animal rehabilitation if I did.

It actually wasn’t the thaw box that caused a problem. It was the freezer acting like a thaw box that was a problem. See, we lost power last weekend. Everyone had already gone home by the time the storm blew through and shut off all the power last Saturday night, and my boss, who usually hangs around on Saturday nights, was out of town to visit her cousin. We had no idea the place had lost its power before we got there on Sunday, at around eleven. The first thing we did, obviously, was do a quick perimeter check. The birds were fine--their cages are all outdoor, and meant to withstand rain storms. 

But the meat freezer...the meat freezer was anything but okay.

I still don’t know how it smelled so badly after only a few hours. It was like it’d been left off for days, weeks even. I felt dizzy when I got close to it. It was leaking, something thick and yellowish pouring out of the closed door. I’d seen meat left out time and time again in the thaw box, and this was nothing like it. It smelled like something sick and diseased. Once I got close enough to it, I was honestly about to be sick. The smell was horrible. Whatever had thawed out in here and was making this smell wasn’t going to the birds, that’s for sure. We’d probably have to deep clean the whole freezer, and believe me when I tell you that’s the last thing anyone wants to do with a freezer for meat. 

And nobody wants to open a freezer that smells like rotting meat, either, but I had to get whatever was in there out as soon as I could, if we were going to salvage any of the good meat in there. So I took a few steps back, took a deep breath, and then opened the damn thing. 

Even while holding my noise, I could smell whatever was causing this absolute miasma in front of me. Imagine how rotting meat smells. Now imagine that, but ten times worse. And imagine it has a whole mass of purplish meat pockmarked with bits of congealed fat, oozing and yellow. And imagine...on top of all of that... _breathing_. Imagine a whole mass of meat breathing, labored, like a dying animal. Veins bulging and flattening as it sucked in air and breathed it out again. 

I didn’t waste any time in slamming the door and running to go tell someone.

After getting some fresh air, though, it wasn’t too bad when I came back. Wearing a mask and having lots of disinfectants, I don’t know. I guess maybe the smell of disinfectants cut how badly that meat smelled like decay. It took about five hours, but we got rid of all the gross meat and deep cleaned the freezer, and even had some leftover meat we were able to salvage. 

Still not sure why the meat was breathing, though.

Nobody believes me when I say it was breathing, but I’m hoping you folk will. Because that was weird. 

* * *

Jon felt his stomach lurch in the way it always did when someone had a statement containing meat to any capacity. Mistaking a mass of meat for breathing was likely just the result of (rightfully) feeling ill smelling rotting flesh. 

Truth be told, this person seemed relatively underwhelmed compared to other people who’d had similar experiences, and perhaps just writing off their experience as weird and nothing but was the correct course of action. Still, they left their contact information attached to their email, and it probably couldn’t have hurt to reach out to them and ask if anything had happened since then. And also to make sure that they were following proper health code laws, because there was no way they were following them to the letter. 

The sound of another email got Jon’s attention, and upon seeing who it was from, Jon really couldn’t stop himself from opening it. 

* * *

**To: archivist@magnusinstitute.co.uk**

**From: mkblackwood@gmail.com**

**Subject: So I have this boss…**

I have this huge _spooky_ mystery surrounding this boss I have.

I have this boss who my coworkers think can be, I don’t know, a little bit of a workaholic, a little abrasive, maybe? And sure, it’s a fair point to make, and I sort of thought it at first too. But I really don’t think he’s that bad. Not bad at all, really. He’s quite nice, once you start to understand him. I know everyone says that, “oh, he’s nice once you get to know him”, but I really mean it. 

The way he goes “hm”, and “yes”, when he listens to you, letting you know he heard everything. The way he sighs and holds his arm out in front of you so you don’t go daftly walking into the busy street. The way he pinches the bridge of his nose when you want to tell him about something you’re really passionate about, and listens even when he said he wasn’t interested, and even asks little questions after. Yeah, maybe he’s just humoring you, but even if he is, it feels nice. 

It’s all about the little things, you know? I really like him. I think other people are too hard on him, and I think he’s a little too hard on himself, too. 

I just don’t get it. It’s a total mystery to me. 

Do you have any ideas?

-Anonymous

* * *

Jon managed a small laugh. Tim had the insight to make a fake email account, but it seemed like Martin hadn’t. Jon might’ve assumed it was meant as some kind of indirect jab at him, but since Martin went through the trouble of suggesting some kind of anonymity, it must’ve been sent with some degree of genuineness attached to it. He’d be sure to tell Martin later not to send him emails to this account, and furthermore, to tell Martin this email was not an advice column, _nor_ was it the place to put his quarterly supervisor reviews. 

He couldn’t bring himself to delete this one. He wanted to, because it was just as unprofessional as all of Tim’s little pranks. Practical jokes, as Tim would insist they were, because they were informed and calculated, and also meant to be a source of annoyance. 

Maybe that’s what made this email from Martin stand out a little more. It was sincere, at least, probably the most sincere thing he’d read all day. At least someone in this inbox full of mostly spam and jokes and half-hearted attempts at recollection was making an effort. 

Jon spent a while longer looking through the unread emails, finding no emails that warranted any kind of investigation. Someone had sent in their eleven-part email series on the types of unidentified flying objects that they had been seeing since 1983, which contained several dark and blurry images of lights in the sky, many of which, Jon was almost positive, were just satellites. The fact that a self-described “UFOlogist” didn’t have the sense of professionalism to at least check the types of satellites visible from his flat was nothing short of saddening. 

Jon was back to rubbing his eyes again and sighing when he heard a gentle knocking at the door. No mistaking who that was. More often that knock was directly followed by being asked if he wanted tea, or if he needed the heat turned up, because it was freezing in his office. 

“Come in, Martin.”

“Hey, Jon,” Martin poked his head in, “um, about the Sherman statement. It’s going to take a little longer, there’s a lot of weird jargon in that statement that I think I have to do background research on. I don’t really know anything about like, medical terminology, and it’s like, _full_ of that. I mean, it gets into all these surgeries they saw working as a nurse. One was like, um, spinal osteo...something. Mellitus. Myelitus? Myilosis? I had no idea what that meant when I first read it, and I still don’t think I do. It’s like, um, I guess it’s like removing infected body parts, or draining infections? But I still don’t know how the surgery they mentioned was like, paranormal, because I don’t know what’s normal in something like that? They never really explained what was weird about it exactly, just that it was weird, overall. And that's like, confusing, you know?”

“That’s fine, Martin,” Jon sighed, turning to look at him, “just make sure you get the summary of it to me in all its accuracy. If you remember, one of yours last week didn’t encompass the full scope of what happened, so I had to look it over again myself.”

“Yeah, I know, I know. Sorry. That’s why I’m looking into all this medical stuff. Gives me a headache, though.”

“That makes two of us. I may never recover from the migraine all of these unread emails are giving me.”

Martin’s expression softened. “Are there really that many?”

“Well over eight thousand when I started, and I have barely scratched the surface of them. Speaking of which, Martin. Please don’t send emails to this account. It’s specifically for the public to send in statements to. Or, whatever the public deems a statement should be. It’s not for workplace communication, or personal communication.”

“W-what?” Martin flushed, averting his gaze and leaning against the door, “I um, I didn’t send you anything today.”

“Ah. Then an email from someone with your first two initials and your last name was just a coincidence.”

“I mean. It--it could’ve been.”

“Detailing their account with their supervisor who, and I quote, was a workaholic and abrasive?”

“That’s not fair. I’m sure that whoever sent that just said that you were a _little_ abrasive.”

Jon raised his eyebrows, the faintest ghost of a smile spreading across his face. “So it _was_ you, then?”

“I didn’t say it was! I inferred, t-that’s all!” Martin’s face was red with embarrassment, and he gave Jon an indignant look that suggested he was internally grappling with whether he actually regretted sending in an email or not. He gave Jon a small noncommittal smile. 

Jon would have been lying if he said that Martin’s little smile didn’t discourage him from scolding him. At least incrementally. Jon felt his lips quirk as he watched Martin nervously fiddle with one of the top buttons on his shirt. “Ah, of course. Just a very strange coincidence, then, and a fantastically lucky guess on your part. This may be the most convincing paranormal event I’ve come across in this inbox all day.” 

“W-well--” Martin swallowed and rubbed the back of his neck. If this was his idea of being subtle, he was doing terribly. 

“Get back to work, Martin,” said Jon, turning away, “and no more emails. From you, or anyone else. Please relay this to Tim and Sasha. I have enough to work through as it is.”

"Oh, yeah," Martin raised his eyebrows, "Tim said you don't know what getting--"

" _Yes_ , Martin. I know. Excuse me for being up to date on all the latest...memes."

"Wait, _latest_? Jon, it's not...it's not the latest one. Not even close. It's been a thing for like, ten years now." Jon grumbled something to himself, and Martin just sighed. “Just let me know if you, if you need anything, alright?”

Jon glanced away from the PC screen for a moment to look at Martin. “I need peace and quiet, Martin. Get back to work.”

Martin sighed, some of the color starting to leave his face as he nodded. “Right-o.”

The door closed, and Jon was alone, again. 

Jon made sure that Martin was long gone before he favorited an email that someone who happened to share the same initials as Martin, _purely coincidentally_ , had sent.

No harm in hanging on to it.


End file.
